I will go down and see what
is the matter, and come back to you."
His voice was not steady as he wished. She clung closer to him.
Clearer, shriller, no longer a fancy, his mother's cry arose.
He hesitated no longer.
"Come, then, let us go."
The terrace or gallery at the foot of the steps was crowded with
soldiers. Other soldiers with drawn swords ran in and out of the
chambers. At one place a number of women on their knees clung to each
other or prayed for mercy. Apart from them, one with torn garments,
and long hair streaming over her face, struggled to tear loose from
a man all whose strength was tasked to keep his hold. Her cries
were shrillest of all; cutting through the clamor, they had risen
distinguishably to the roof. To her Judah sprang--his steps were
long and swift, almost a winged flight-- "Mother, mother!" he
shouted. She stretched her hands towards him; but when almost
touching them he was seized and forced aside. Then he heard some
one say, speaking loudly,
"That is he!"
Judah looked, and saw--Messala.
"What, the assassin--that?" said a tall man, in legionary armor
of beautiful finish. "Why, he is but a boy."
"Gods!" replied Messala, not forgetting his drawl. "A new philosophy!
What would Seneca say to the proposition that a man must be old before
he can hate enough to kill? You have him; and that is his mother;
yonder his sister. You have the whole family."
For love of them, Judah forgot his quarrel.
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